


WINTER AESTHETIC WRITING CHALLENGE.

by transplisetsky



Series: just me messing with words [1]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-01
Updated: 2016-12-31
Packaged: 2018-09-11 01:23:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 31
Words: 9,315
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8947612
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/transplisetsky/pseuds/transplisetsky
Summary: 31 days of messing up writing.





	1. the silence.

“I’m in love with you.”

He almost laughed. He felt it bubbling towards the surface and dying in his throat. And for a moment, he got angry at himself. He wanted to laugh. He wanted to laugh at those words, at his fake feelings, at him. He wanted to laugh and show him how little those words meant to him. He really wanted to, but he had lost the ability.

He could sense his eyes on his bare back. And he didn’t care. He didn’t care anymore.

“You’re not in love with me,” he said, without turning back. “You are in love with the control you have over me.”


	2. the moonlight.

Tonight she’s up there, I know it.

High, high above where I can’t see her, between the coldness of space and the last remains of my hope. But she’s there. And she still lives. She will live even if it’s only in my memory. I know. I want to know. I want her to know.

Because I miss her. Because I love her. Because I’m trying.

Because I know. Because I think I know. Because I want to know that now she dances at night, swimming in the light of new-born stars, laughing with dying gods of gold veins and crowns of blood and laurel. I know she sleeps under a blanket of silver dust and ice while I keep walking under nude trees, under their skeletal forms against the full moon. Their branches try reach it, they try to rip its light from the night sky. But she’s up there, white and grey and luminous.

It’s winter outside, at last. I want to fall. I want to jump. But I keep trying.


	3. the lost puppet.

Tenía las cuerdas rotas y le faltaba un botón en el abrigo. Alguien había apagado un cigarrillo en el hueco en el que una bolita de plástico había hecho de ojo. Los pantalones a rombos fucsias y amarillos habían perdido su color y estaban manchados de barro y ceniza.

Uno de sus brazos colgaba tristemente, sujeto sólo por un par de hilos.

Y él se movía de noche, arrastrando los recuerdos de su tiempo en el teatro de títeres. Arlequín le habían llamado, pero había perdido toda su gracia. Nunca se había enamorado. Siempre había sido el último en el cajón. Pero era su cajón. Quizá. 

Arlequín se sentaba en la acera y veía pasar a niños y niñas con juguetes nuevos, llevando en volandas a algún primo, alguna hermana, alguna caricatura suya. Pero ninguno miraba a Arlequín dos veces.

Arlequín estaba perdido, perdido, perdido.

Y a veces dejaba caer piezas de su traje por si necesitaba volver por donde había venido. Pero cuando miraba hacia atrás, nunca veía nada. Y delante de él, sólo había una carretera. Larga, larga, larga, que nunca se acababa y le arañaba los pies a través de las babuchas de papel. 

Y caminaba, caminaba, caminaba.

Y pensaba que Arlequín no era su nombre. Quizá se llamaba, se llamaba, se llamaba… Quizá nunca fue otro más que Arlequín. Arquelín. Alrequín. Alquiren. Un títere sin caja.


	4. the snowfall.

_I… I can’t see where I’m putting my foot. Ice crystals are freezing my lashes and the cold air is bitting my eyes. I can’t cry anymore. I don’t want to cry anymore. It’s cold, it’s too cold. Inside, outside, I can’t tell the difference. I’m shaking. But I’m not crying. I want to, but I feel like I’ve forgotten how._

_“Is anybody there?”_ But not even echoes care to answer.

 [the record cuts]

 _Fuck._ Fuck _, I don’t know where I’m going. I can’t see a damn thing. W-woah!_ **[the wind whistles, interferences, wood creaks loudly].** _What the hell did I stumble on?! There’s only grey and movement. Cold. It’s too cold. An-… What the f… What the hell was that? I sw… F… God! I can’t see anything. Why nobody saw this fucking snowstorm coming?_

[another cut]

 _What the fuck…? Hey, I’m… Is_ that _someone? Looks… Looks like a person, yeah. Why the fuck would a-_ **[the wind howls loudly]** _-one be out with this weather!? Besides me, of course. I’m outside because I’m fucking stupid. That’s why. Me. Stupid. Doing stupid things. Nothing new._ **[A laugh].** _I’m losing my fucking mind._

[there’s nothing more recorded]

He’s smiling at me, but he’s sad. But not as I am. His is a soft sadness, like a calm river crossing a plain. Mine is a long-firmly fixed knife in my throat. I’m used to it. It has been there since the day they left. I laugh a bit with my lips closed because it feels like forever. Maybe it had been.

“Why are you here?” I ask. My voice is smooth, like tranquil, cold water. Like a faded memory. There are no tears. I’m dry. Maybe I’ve been since forever.

Snow lands softly over me. We are alike, I think. 

But then his smiles falters and fades. He looks at his feet and to his left. She’s there too, I know. She looks at me and smiles sadly. They are not here, they’re made of dancing snowflakes. And everything is sad, but my heart doesn’t feel anything. It beats, emotionless, unconscious. I know I should cry.

I should beg.

I should get angry and scream and cry again.

I know I should feel, but I only blink. They fade.


	5. the mist.

The sound of horse hooves thundered in his chest mixed with adrenaline. His breath came short and ragged and his bones ached. He only felt cold, but they were close, they were too close and he couldn’t stop. 

A root hid in the mist made him trip and hit the floor. While he was trying to catch his breath and looking for the strength to keep going, a voice shouted:

“He can’t be far away!”

Another voice agreed as others cheered the first. “Keep searching for him!”

The woods through which he was running housed a great many terrors, he knew it. From hungry bears to wolfs that roamed the forest in hope of a child wandered too far from the village. He knew he could find something like that, but he didn’t care. Beasts were beasts, they would kill him or injure him, but they wouldn’t torture him.

Like humans could.

His lungs protested, they couldn’t take it for too long. His heartbeat was so fast and loud that he could feel the vibrations in his sternum. He needed to take a break, but he couldn’t. He kept running away.

He needed to get as far as he could from the city. From any city or village or… He needed to hide and rest and… and what? Where could he live after what he had done? How could he keep living after it? There was nothing for him, nothing but guilt, but shame. He was a monster, and all monsters deserved to die. They deserved to be killed. How could he run away after… after…

His lungs gave up. His only heard his bloodstream, pounding. And in front of his eyes, there was only horror.

What had he done?

A sob tried to rip its way through his throat. He lifted his hands to his mouth to choke it and let himself fall back into a tree. He blinked and tears made their appearance. He was still in the woods, but his mind was in the room. His fingers were still dirty with blood. He muffled another whimper and start to shrink into himself.

“Has anyone found him?!” 

A negative response came from afar. 

His blood run cold, his trembling worsened. They had left the horses, that’s why he couldn’t hear them. And they were close. Now he could hear their steps as they walked through the undergrowth, searching for him, circling him like a wild animal. He was lost, he was doomed. 

He closed tightly his eyes. He couldn’t escape, there was no way he could…

“Let’s go back to the river” someone shouted. “He can’t have gone this way” added a voice, too close to his hideout.

And the steps started to fade away.

When he could not hear them, he got up, slowly. Hesitant. He tried to listen something besides the forest’s sounds, but they had vanished. And mist was raising. 

An owl flew between the trees before he made up his mind to leave his hide behind a tree. He found himself standing in the middle of the path, looking at a smiling moon. Then down, at his blood-covered hands.

“What?” he murmured. 

It looked like a dream. It felt like a dream.

But even if it was, he would never risk it. He started to walk in the opposite direction to the soldiers, looking at his own feet. 

The mist deepened and, somehow, smiled.


	6. the cold.

white marble.   
the winter breeze.  
whispered words to a corpse in the morgue.  
“i am you assassin”.  
the antarctic circle.  
a glass of dark wine.   
pale hands, mahogany bedposts.  
the moment when the city lights die.  
naked skin, a shiver.  
a solitary bird in the sky.  
the waiting in the bus stop.   
wet globes and military boots.  
the silence before the rain  
the rain before the wind  
the wind after stepping out of your home.  
old sheets, cream walls.  
ominous looking books, rugs full of dust.  
a cracked window, distant sunlight.  
a piano medley that only sounds in your mind.  
speaks about a forgotten kingdom, the soft desolation of the oblivion  
a half-told myth, old wars that end with no victory but guilty.   
leaving. the ocean.  
old and wrinkled faces, the smell of fish.  
tired eyes, heavy bones, grey lips.  
a small moon and thin clouds like puffs of breath.   
smoke. a train trip at night. looking at the blurry landscape.  
a emotionless heart, beating soundlessly in its ribcage.  
the background noise of the city at your feet.   
jumping. partying. aeroplane lights too high.  
“i hope we are seeing the same moon, because i feel so sad”.  
drowning and not caring.  
looking into someone’s eyes and not saying a word.   
watch them leave without moving.   
they’re crying. you’re not.


	7. the path.

The path was becoming narrower and full of curves, like a sleeping snake. The moon was getting bigger in its Cheshire cat-like smile. Wet leaves and mosh made the rail treacherous but his steps remained silent. Sometimes he could hear animals moving through the shadows but nothing, ever, stepped into his way. 

Yellow eyes gleamed at his back, but he couldn’t see them.

His lids were heavy and he was tired, but there was no way in hell he was going to stop. He wanted to leave the woods, to escape as far as his legs were willing to take him. Forget the horror. Forget who he was. Forget what he had done.

The mist tangled itself around his ankles like a loving pet, like a chain guiding him to his new prison.

The trees opened their way to the sky and thermal sensation lowered. He ceased feel the protection of the forest anymore. He looked up.

And before him stood the sight of an ancient and gloomy cathedral. Tall, dark iron gates surrounded the area and were lost between the overgrown flora. The rosette had lost half of its crystals, and those that remained looked ominous and strangely out of place. Something was telling him that they didn’t belong to where they were. 

But the moonlight passed through the reddish crystals and cast faded colors on the ground. The door was ajar, but no shadows escaped from the inside.

He looked around him, insecure.

“Come on.”

And gave in.

Carefully, trying to not make any noise, he entered. The roof had fallen down and the ethereal but yet bright moonlight lighten up everything. The skeletal columns and broken statues made it look ancient. He looked up and the satellite seemed closer than ever.

Between the destruction caused by time, there was a path indicated by the rags of a faded carpet. And in its end, a human form was lying down on the floor.

It had wings and mist played around them, soft as a caress.

The angel looked up and saw him. He froze on his tracks, and the angel smiled. His teeth were sharp, akin to a shark’s.

All was silent around them, there were not even the hoot of nightbirds or cry of foxes to break the quiet.

The chains around the angel tinkled as it moved.

“You found me,” it said.


	8. the evergreen forests.

No one ever look at us.

They think we are eternal, that we don’t die. We endure the cold and the warmth; we are in constant birth and death. We are silent, we grow, we break the earth and even the storms can’t defeat us. We are the first and the last. We were kings once. We are alive, but we are sleeping.

Our insides are dark, the memories we hold are darker. Under our shadows hunters lose their minds, victims lose their lives, animals become humans and humans become the beasts they have always been. We are labyrinths with a hundred doors and no exits.

We live in the heights, in the frontier of survival. We have never inspired poets, just murders, suicides, terror tales and sad photographs. We don’t burn, we don’t freeze. We live inside nightmares; we are the nightmares.

We hide hearts, we hide souls, we hide corpses that are still alive. We hide songs and wrong-spelled names, medals and wars. Burned cars, drugs and cannibals. Give us lust for sex, for destruction and the void.

We are the evergreen forests, blood and rust.


	9. the laughs, but solitude.

“Did you watch it?”

“Of course, man! It was amazing, I mean, we were all in the third row and…” and they keep talking. I fall behind, watching their backs and how they talk about the film.

I haven’t seen it. No one invited me to go to the cinema with them and, to be honest? I wasn’t even interested in it. But sometimes… sometimes I would like them to invite me to their plans. But that doesn’t happen anymore. I am falling behind, or maybe drifting off.

I don’t know,

They laugh heartily and I smile a bit, but immediately it falls from my face. They’re closer now, their shoulders brush and I feel like a total stranger in this scene, just watching them as they walk and talk. As they forget me, maybe.

The space between us grows and I start to walk slower, with my head tipped back. I stop to look up to the lights.

The street is full of life. It’s December and even if it’s cold and night falls at 5 p.m. people like to go outside and enjoy the Christmas ambient. I don’t like Christmas, but I like the decorations. The lights make me feel better.

They’re pretty. Not in the way flowers are, like little worlds and hope life and a beautiful death; not in the way that a painting can be, smooth and alive in its stillness; not in the way that the moon is, reflected in the ocean, distant and cold and…

“Hey! Are you listening?”

“Huh?” I say, eloquently. They laugh and I do too, sheepishly. 

“You were like, in the clouds!” she says, warm and bright and friendly and I feel ashamed for feeling out of place. For not belonging there anymore.

“I’m sorry,” I say and they laugh. I join them with a small chuckle.

And it starts again. We talk and we laugh and we joke and we walk.

But I fall back one more time.

And I feel alone again.


	10. the christmas lights.

I’ve always been fond of colors. Even since I was a child, I have always loved them. My favourite seasons were spring because of its fullness and prime and autumn because of the contrast between its warm colors and the coldness in the ambient. 

But I have never liked winter.

Even summer was better than winter. Summer days were colorful but not in a pictorial way; it was the people, the life and the joy that made summer better than winter. And summer nights? The parties and the fireworks were all about color and motion.

But winter was, is dark. Black and grey and white and skeletal and halfway between death and fading. I hated winter. I couldn’t go anywhere alone because of the ice, the rain, the wind or the cold. I got sick every week and at 6 pm is closed night. 

I hated it. I even hated Christmas because its colors were all deep and somber and dark. And I needed brightness. Winter didn’t suit me, never did. 

And that’s why I don’t understand why I fell in love with him.

He was cold and pale and his only colors were black, white and grey under his eyes. His hair was dark brown, his eyes were dark green. But the way he talked made me think of light. Even if he was cold, it was nice. 

I liked it. But he was winter, and I hated winter.

But I loved his light, like the distant sun in January. Like the cold white lights of Christmas. He didn’t like the colored ones, he always said that they didn’t give as much light as the others did.

I still don’t like winter or Christmas as much as I like spring or autumn, but now I’m fond of its lights. Even if they make me a bit sad, or a bit cold. Maybe coldness isn’t that bad. Black and white and grey are still colors, aren’t they?


	11. the dust.

Dust floats around and shines like diamonds where the rays of light falls from the only unblinded window, The only sound is the echoes of the collision of a drop against a bigger mass of water. 

The figure blinks slowly, his eyelashes are covered in gray. His pupils are small and he looks tired or maybe dormant. His lungs are filled with dust and ashes. Ivy climbs his bones and tangles itself in his organs. 

He blinks again. He looks like a girl sitting in a chair made of wood in a abandoned factory. He’s dressed in white and his arms are uncovered. He’s standing still, with his hands over his lap.

He’s thinking. He doesn’t like it because it makes him remember, but he does it anyway. There’s a lot of dust in his memories, that’s true. A lot he doesn’t remember. But her name is still there, clear and unmoving. Her bones will never be covered in dust and oblivion. 

She’s dead, but maybe she had been murdered. Was him the murderer? Was someone else? He thinks her death is his fault, but there isn’t any proof of it. Just guilt. And dust. And the burning heat of fire.

“Truth is such a tiring thing,” he mumbles, and a leaf falls from his mouth.

And he’s tired.


	12. the basement.

La luz proviene del televisor. Está en uno de esos espacios vacíos llenos de rayas blancas y negras. Ilumina el sofá que tiene enfrente y perfila las sombras de la mesa que hay detrás y la alta planta decorativa al lado de lo que en cualquier otro piso hubiera sido un ventanal. Su reflejo en las estatuas barnizadas o en el cristal de las lámparas recuerdan a un par de ojos sin forma definida, ciegos, enfocados en tu nuca como un mal presagio. 

Pero no hay nadie en el sótano y la amenaza es en vano.

El ruido blanco es tan leve que podría confundirse con el siseo del cuerpo de una serpiente al arrastrarse sobre la hierba verde. Es una imagen fantasmal, quieta, dibujada en penumbras y sombras. Los pasos de cualquiera desaparecerían gracias a la alfombra.

Se fijarían en el polvo de los muebles, de las repisas, de la planta, pero no hay nadie para verlo. Sólo el televisor en un canal vacío donde resuena el eco del una vez fue.

Hay una amapola marchita en un jarrón lacado en negro, proyectando una silueta pequeña para su tamaño. El mantel de la mesa está arrugado y en una de las sillas hay un cojín de colores castaños. 

La mesilla baja entre el televisor y el sofá está cubierta de papeles arrugados, periódicos sin leer, CDs sin abrir, ceniza de cigarrillo y el espacio que ocupó un vaso de brandy o una lata de cerveza barata.

El cenicero sigue allí, pero alguien lo ha usado para meter pilas y pétalos de anastasias. 

Se escucha un bocinazo, un frenazo sobre el asfalto, arriba, en la carretera y metal hundiéndose contra metal. Suena apagado, estamos en un sótano, es normal. Pero te llama la atención, claro. Con pánico, temiendo lo peor, corres escaleras arriba donde el resto de los habitantes de la casa se mueven deprisa.

Y mientras el ojo de la narración se aleja del salón olvidado, un suspiro agudo y dulce eclipsa un instante el ruido blanco. Y donde antes no había nadie, se sienta en el sofá un fantasma translúcido y pálido. Le cae el pelo rubio sobre los ojos y en sus manos lleva pétalos afilados.

Pero tú ya no estás allí para verlo ni para mirarlo. 

Ahora estás en el primer piso, obvservando con horror desde la puerta de tu casa el accidente. Se acercan las ambulancias.


	13. the memories.

[the desolation] **** _  
_Где водка и кошки, я хочу умереть  
gdié vodka e koshka, iá hashu umeret  
now you know the secrets of russia

[the violence]  
hashahdajHAHAH  
i love languages they’re just amazing  
and the places where they’re born and everything.

[the desolation]  
you know,  
when she was alive we used to dream about having a little house in the Balkans

[the violence]  
sounds lovely.  
she didn’t want to stay at one place, she wanted the whole world so.  
the only place i can look and be at her side it’s the moon.

[the desolation]  
I really wanted to be with her in that little village in the Balkans  
where she could play the harp at ease  
she was… gifted  
and I miss her so much..

[the violence]  
i know  
i can’t sing anymore without thinking about her

[the desolation]  
sorry

[the violence]  
don’t be, I wasn’t good anyway.  
but she had this thing that made any song a blessing  
that broken note.

[the desolation]  
yeah

[the violence]  
she was bright summer and i was a winter storm.  
but i loved her, fiercely.  
i still do. I always will.

[the desolation]  
hurts

[the violence]  
like hell, yeah  
but i understand  
i never had any expectations for a future, i only thought about the next fight  
so we never planned anything  
but she wanted me to love life like she did

[the desolation]  
all our plans were crazy things  
but they made me so happy…

[the violence]  
i like reading you talking about her.

[the desolation]  
why?

[the violence]  
it makes me feel. 

[the desolation]  
oh  
I see  
I don’t tend to do it, talking about her i mean  
because it hurts  
but sometimes I smile…

[the violence]  
i have never met anyone who lost someone who meant that much the same way i did.  
i know it hurts, it always will.

[the desolation]  
yeah,,

[the violence]  
but memories are the only thing left.  
and if you let them rest, they start to fade

[the desolation]  
I can’t remember her scent, I hate that  
when we slept together, she would keep holding me close and id tell her  
“I love your scent” and she would laugh  
and I’d put my head close to hers and close my eyes and repeat it  
and she would feel embarrassed but she would hug me closer and kiss me

[the violence]  
hah  
she always complained i smelt like sweat and blood and alcohol that some fucking idiot would have thrown at the ring and smoke  
and “god, man, go fucking shower i’m going to die because of the pollution you leave behind”  
and i would punch her in the shoulder and sometimes we could start arguing about it.  
i don’t have cute memories of her  
just those things, just violence.

[the desolation]  
I can’t stop thinking now  
did you know she gave me her childhood books?  
the same I read when I’m sad  
it’s the only thing left from her  
and I’m covering them on tears as usual

[the violence]  
i had –have– a ring.  
a silver ring  
but it broke.  
and i can’t bring myself to repair it because i feel like if i do it, she will fade because i cut they last thread i had with her.  
when you repair something is the new beginning of that repaired thing.  
i don’t want a new beginning, i just want an ending,   
I just want fire again.

[the desolation]  
i hate the feeling  
the chest, aching

[the violence]  
longing for something that was and can’t be anymore.

[the desolation]  
it’s painful

[the violence]  
like you’ve grow thorn where your heart belonged and they’re making their way out through your sternum

[the desolation]   
yes  
you writers always have the words  
I would call it  
my chest is trying to explode but it can’t because it’s a chest

[the violence]   
HAHAJSH  
you’re so dumb.

[the desolation]  
yeah

[the violence]   
i feel like i’m about to implode. i will collapse softly and i’ll be consumed by myself  
everything will tear itself from its place and seek a new home deep inside, like a miniaturized black hole that will disappear with a little tendril of weak smoke, without causing further damage

[the desolation]   
more like that  
look, I’m gonna pay you  
so when people ask me about things, you’ll answer

[the violence]   
if you pay i’m willingly to do it. i wont say no to money

[the desolation]   
hahaha  
I’m… I’m so tired  
I can’t think  
and my chest is doing everything you described

[the violence]   
go to sleep.  
everything hurts less sleeping

[the desolation]   
yeah,, gdnight

[the violence]  
goodnight to you too.

 


	14. the calm.

Darim stood in front of Enea dressed in black. His shoulders were covered in white from the snowfall outside. Enea didn’t look impressed at all by his sudden apparition, but he let him inside of his home nevertheless. Darim thanked God for small mercies. Enea could have just slammed the door in his face without a hint of regret.

Darim followed him to the kitchen where tea has heating up. While the other boy was at his cooking, he tried to calm down. He had a lot of things to say; he had even prepared a speech to make Enea understand, to…

“You can’t love him!” Darim snapped.

Enea looked at him with his blank stare, a silent why, a silent I don’t care about anything you have to say, a silent I already made up my mind. 

“He is a murderer,” Darim said, lowering his voice.

Enea shrugged a shoulder. 

“So what?” he asked softly. “We all are”.


	15. the white flowers.

there was something about her  
that made me think of  
white flowers  
in autumn

a seashell white  
like an ancient innocence.

a ghost white  
like a shattered soul, the stare of an iceberg against the ocean or

a broken white  
like a lonely note or the feathers of a swan.

the burning ribcage of a star and behind  
the darkness of its beating heart.

but supernovas are colorful, not plain white.

and her skin was tan.  
and her eyes were green.  
and her laugh was like an Indian market, vibrant and alive.

but there was something about her  
that made me think of white flowers  
in autumn, in the fall.

maybe it was because

she feared death  
as  
she feared life.

maybe her skin was pale  
and her eyes were black.  
her laugh was nonexistent unless you ripped it from her throat.

her skin could be yellow-ish, maybe wet earth dark.  
and her eyes, bright blue or deep brown  
and she liked to dance, to paint, to stay quiet or to scream out loud.

her name could have been Haeun  
Kabira  
Diana, Elena, Katrina, Yasmin, Theda if you want.

and perhaps she didn’t have a name at all.

but there was something about her,  
white flowers and a scent  
that made me think of  
bandages, railroads and autumn rain.


	16. the tombstone.

The tombstone was covered in moss and lichen but the engraved letters were still there. Erosion had faded their edges and made them soft to the touch, almost unreadable, but they were there.

And even if they weren’t, he wouldn’t care. He didn’t know who was buried there and, honestly, it wasn’t something that worried him. Dead people couldn’t do any harm.

He was there because he needed to think and cemeteries were calm enough to do that. So when the other boy appeared, he didn’t pay attention. He was there at 1:03 am. so anyone could. They just had to jump over the fence.

He lifted the cigarette to his lips again and made sure his jacket was still over the headstone with the other hand. The moon was on its last quarter and its light was unusually bright.

It’s just light reflected from the sun, he thought. But it was so white, so pure and uncanny that he had a hard time believing it. Sunlight was… empty, simple, it was plain, artless.

The fuck am I saying.

He tried to go back to his own and habitual thoughts, but something was nagging him and making him unable of concentrate in his own misfortunes. And when he looked up, he saw him again.

The boy was wearing a white… tunic? Boy, Halloween was two months ago and moving around the graves, leaving something in one of them. He stopped before one with an angel instead of a cross on its top and crouched. It looked like he was reading the name there or touching it with his fingers.

Moonlight made him shine as he stood up and started to walk away.

An insect bit his hand, taking him out of his reverie.

“Fuck,” he whispered and hoped the boy hadn’t heard him. 

But he had and was eyeing him with a weird expression.

“What,” he snapped. Great, good, that’s why you suck at human interactions. You are in a fucking necropolis at 2 in the fucking morning, what did you expect?

“Nothing,” said the boy, blinking. They stared at each other a minute before he looked again at his cigarette. It wasn’t lit anymore. “What are you doing here?”

“Nothing,” he answered, parroting the boy. He sighed. “Thinking,” murmured in a softer tone and looked at the sky. 

The boy moved near him, standing next to the tombstone he had in front of. The stranger was facing the moon, so he could to see the weird color of his eyes. It reminded him of rust.

“What’s your name?” the boy asked, touching the edge of the grave. He had a strange voice, clear and… it made him think of ivory and ivy. It was… odd.

“Reshef”, he replied.

“It’s pretty.” He agreed with a hum and looked away to the small grove at his left, smoking. “You are not dead.”

He snorted at that. “Well, I hope so”. A new silence.

“What about you?” he looked at him, questioning.

The boy just shrugged and pointed at the tombstone. “But I’m alive. I think”.

“You think.”

“Sometimes I feel like I’m not.”


	17. the winter air.

The winter air was clear. It held the cold of the ice, the snow had landed over the night and everything was quiet. Even sunlight was strangely silent that morning. 

The boy dressed in white was standing next to a frozen pond. He was looking at his own reflection. Maybe in spring there would be fishes or even ducks. But it was winter, the only thing there was ice. And him. 

A breeze of cold air moved his hair and his clothes. It was a ghostly sight. He felt a ghost himself, halfway between oblivion and midnight. It was a strange feeling because he didn’t feel, he remembered the way it had felt to feel. That was what he was… what he was thinking.

“There are things easy to survive,” he said, softly. The silence settled down around his words. “I am not one of them”. The memory of a sound, of a movement, tried to wake up. The winter air quelled it instantly, like a translucid scythe.

The ivy in his lungs made a sound like a harp as he sighed.

And walked away.


	18. the graveyard fences.

They were still talking and laughing when the form appeared behind the boy’s back. His instinctive reaction was reaching out and dragging the boy to his side by the arm. He yelped at the sudden movement and practically crashed into Reshef’s chest.

“Sorry,” he said, surprised and distracted for a moment. The boy was a lot lighter than he had expected. But the sound of the fallen leaves moving attracted his attention again. They looked up at the monster. 

It was wearing a white, oval mask with two black circles as eyes and a triangle, similar to the beak of a bird, as mouth.

It took a step towards them. He held the boy closer.

“What the fuck is that?” he murmured between gritted teeth. He was standing perfectly still, hoping that the creature didn’t see them. When the masked moved again, he was about to snap.

“I… Where is…” said the mask. Its voice was distorted, distant, like it came from a tunnel. “I… I was a creator,” it mumbled, sounding confused. “But I can’t, I was, I did…” 

Suddenly, Reshef lose his fear. It sounded lost, it seemed lost.

The figure bumped over the grave where the boy had been resting.

“I was a creator…” the mask repeated. “The greatest of all, but I… I committed a sin, a sin I committed, but I can’t, I can’t…!” its voice was getting louder and louder but stopped there.

If it was a human, it would be looking around him, desperate. It would have his hair messed up, and there would be tears in his eyes.

“I’m… I’m paying for what I did, I’m… but what did I do, what did I do…”

And took a different path, but they remained silent.

What the fuck was that, Reshef’s mind screamed. Get the fuck out of here, his mind added. Are you fucking listening to me????, it raged.

“It sounded lost” he said, instead. 

The boy looked at him. His eyes were sad.

“They are,” he mumbled. “They’re prisoners.”

“Prisoners of what,” you should be losing your ass off running out of here, you scrawny miscreant, his mind supplied.

“Of prisons, I think.”

“Well, that one seemed free enough, roaming around of a fucking cemetery at 3 am. on a Wednesday”. 

The boy looked at him, biting his lip. He nodded almost imperceptibly, but looked sad, and worried. Reshef sighed. For fuck’s sa- YOU are going to deserve anything that comes next.

“Why can’t it go out?”

“I don’t know, but they just can’t,” and suddenly, he looked in despair. “I tried everything, from talking to them to try to push them through the graveyard doors or ever the fences, but nothing works and there are, they are…” oh, this is fucking great.

Reshef had hugged the boy. And his mind was making the incorporeal equivalent to a face-palm while rolling its eyes and growling. The boy hugged him back, clawing at his jacket. He sobbed.

“I don’t know how, I don’t understand…”

“Not all prisons are made of metal bars and stone, easy to destroy or to go through,” said an empty voice.

They jumped out of fear.

Another mask was watching them.


	19. the christmas carols.

They talk about good wishes and new years, about starting again, about new beginnings. They talk about being happy, about celebrating that you’ve done it another year, you’re alive, it’s time to start again. Talk about reconciliation and spend time with your friends and family, with those you love the most, with those you hold dearest.

But I can’t feel anything those Christmas carols talk about. I’ve got my own, made up by time. Christmas carols sing of being sad. And tired. And I can hear them all year because they’re inside of me, encysted somewhere too deep for me to rip them out. Or maybe the cyst is the little good I can, could?, feel.

They say I need to stop living in the past, but what do you do when the past is the only good you have? What do you do when your present is awful and your future seems worse, like an abyss? What do you do then?

We wish you a merry Christmas.

Thanks, but your wishes are in vain. i won’t have a merry Christmas, they’ve stopped to be merry to me a while ago. Your carols don’t reach me. Christmas only makes me think of loss. Of sadness. Of empty morning light.

So write a carol about being so sad you can’t feel anything anymore. Sing me one about the loss, about how losing feels. Sing me one about broken bones and shattered glass. Sing me one about spilled blood and tears. Sing me one about screaming and breaking and wishing and hoping. Sing me one about the apathy, the inertia, the hollow sound of your breath. Sing me one about not seeing anymore, about the emotional equivalent of watching paint dry.

Sing me one about not caring enough to keep living or to seek death. Sing me one about blood, fear, the cold, the winter air.

We wish you a merry Christmas.

Sing me one about the violence and the desolation.

We wish you a merry Christmas.

Sing me one about the moon and the ocean, piano keys and Siberian trees, about the corpse of a swan and the remains of a fire.

And a happy new year.

It won’t be.


	20. the open door.

When I arrive home, the door is open. 

Light escapes from the inside, gold and warm and, for a moment, I forget about all the bad things that happened to me between those walls. I’m outside, in my own garden, walking carefully over the flagstone path trying not to slip on the ice. The Christmas lights and decorations are lit and flickering it their colorful dance and I just forget.

I see the light, gold and warm and home-coming. I’m outside, winter cold biting my cheeks and nose, my fingers are almost frozen and my blood runs slow. And right in front of me, there’s an open door. 

And I smile because how can I not to?

It’s a cinematographic image, perfect in light and angle and background. I can even hear the voices of my family and friends inside, laughing and chatting. And the light is there, bright and soft and inviting. 

It really is like the representation of new hope, the antecedent of a new start with everything, of things going better. Maybe it’s like a chance to forgiveness, to forget everything bad. 

And I go to it, without remembering. Because it’s too pretty, too good to pass up. I don’t even try to think that I may regret this, probably will. But in this exact moment, I don’t care. It makes me happy, it makes me believe. 

Maybe believing isn’t that bad once in a while.

Even if after all shatters.


	21. the present.

_It could be a small box_   
_or a cylinder._   
_Maybe it’s hollow but_   
_it’s heavy._   
_Receiving it feels like a burden, most of time._   
_It is wrapped in a colorful_   
_or maybe in a plain green paper?_   
_that doesn’t really matter because_   
_it has your name on it._   
_You cannot escape from your present,_   
_it’s almost laughable seen you try to do it._   
_It is just there and,_   
_even if you know what it is,_   
_you’re almost scared of open it._   
_When you extend your hand,_   
_smile and give your thanks,_   
_a voice in your head says_   
_“this one you cannot sell again.”_   
_When you open it,_   
_-even if you don’t want-_   
_you are going to see the truth_   
_it may be a present_   
_but it is your past._

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry!” laughs the Harlequin while the audience roars in discontent, “I can’t help but love this kind of tricks!”

And the theatre closes, it has been a bad night. When will that marionette keep its mouth shut? 


	22. the glass.

“Everything has changed outside the necropolis,” said the gargoyle with its voice akin to sandpaper over wood. “The ghosts and the memories are now dancing over the tombs and death awaits in every corner and crossroad. It is waiting to dance over your bones.”

And laughed until the dust of its insides made it cough.

The host, sitting in his armchair, lifted his glass full of dark wine and took a sip. He wasn’t exactly human, or that he thought, since he lacked of plenty of feelings that the other people considered inherent in the human being. But even if anything in his physiognomy or anatomy couldn’t tell otherwise, his… congeners didn’t like him.

And those who did always tried to change the fact that he couldn’t feel.

“Aaaah, fresh air,” sighed the gargoyle after stop coughing. “A long time ago a coven of old witches used to live in the caves I am from. They left long ago but the smell of their potions is still stuck in my lungs.”

The glass caught light from the fireplace and gleamed in his hand.

“Tell me that tale again,” he pleaded.

The gargoyle frowned in annoyance. For a statue made of stone, it was really expressive.

“You’ve heard it a hundred times,” it mumbled.

“Then I’ll be a hundred and one times.”

The gargoyle made the stony equivalent to rolling its eyes.

“Once upon a time,” it started, fast and bored, “there was a boy dressed in white-”

“Please,” asked the other. 

The gargoyle did the idea of rolling its eyes again.

“Why do you like it so much?”

“It makes me feel.” The answer was so simple and yet desperately honest that the gargoyle remembered why was there. Neither of them didn’t have anyone to bother with their incomplete existences, right? A tale could ease part of that emptiness, even if it was just for a while.

“Okay then…” and the gargoyle started again.


	23. the ocean.

It sounds like a storm. It always does, but in summer the laughs and the people cover up its song. I’ve heard it through a hundred different scenes and pictures. I have heard it even when I was away from its easy presence.

The ocean, not the seashore nor the sea but the deep ocean, sounds like a storm. Far away from the mainland, far away from the easiness of their winds and living creatures, it sounds like a storm. Water against water against the air against the blue. And it can be calm, but to the lonely it sounds like a storm.

The cliffs, the holy and pagan columns of the earth are born inside the oceans and rise like ancient, forgotten deities. And at their feet, the sound of the sky breaking open and screaming. But the land doesn’t cage up the oceans. The oceans destroy the land. Those who scream are the cliffs, the earth being wounded like a wild beast.

But the ocean, the ocean sounds like a storm, like a naval battle of the 18th century and the Royal Navy and the clear skies darkening with the promise of rage, death and smoke.

The ocean, its surface, sounds like a storm. And deep, deep below in its oppressive but calm shadows and strange colors without light, a moving, easy peace, like clean bones and gold coins sleeping into oblivion.

The silence of its depths are the premise and the calm before. Its a silence full of meaning, heavy with consequences. A silence so loud you can’t do anything but try to break it as it takes over your mind.

 

_The boy in white smells like saltpeter and iodine._


	24. the storm.

It moves, smooth and charged with the idea of destruction. It talks about desolation, about the burning and tense feeling of being too full and wanting to explode. But exploding will only bring more chaos and you cannot stand more chaos.

A suicide because of hatred towards another one, towards the chains.

So it moves, breaching the skies in silence, contorting the winds and bringing shadow and the menace. But it is silent. The winds are the only ones who scream too high to hear them. 

But the tension doesn’t let you breathe, it girds your skin against your hollow cheeks and resonates in your bones. It press your lungs, surrounding them in bandages too tight. It drags its tongue on your palate, leaving there the taste of voltage and torn leaves.

The clouds stumble upon each other, pressure changes and lowers. And it hurts, the tension rips the air apart like fingers and nail could do with a human heart. Then, the first crack shines like an arrow of white hot fire, like the string of a harp made of the purest moonlight.

It sounds like a landslide of clear stone, like a prophecy.

There are no dragons except from the shadows between lightning and the screech of fine glass breaking against a wall. The rain doesn’t feel freeing. It is hard, cold, unforgiving. The winds howl in pain, from rage, they are spiralling into an abyss, into chaos. 

It’s a chaos born out of a tangled desperation, of a moment of fracture. 

 

_The boy in white moves like the silence between thunder._


	25. the sinking ship.

There’s no one around to watch the tragedy. Not even the sailors are closer, they left as soon as they could. The old ship tries to keep itself over the sea level, but it’s getting tired.

Tango is a dance of two and the ocean and the storm are swinging around each other. There’s no place for a third. The ship is stuck between two parners who love each other to hate, two strangers with the same beating compass.

And it is silent, lulled by the waves and the war sounds of the nature. Its tiny lights, like distant stars, scintillate in the midst of a dark blue and steel gray palette.

Everything moves inside of the ship, smashing against each other, breaking the restrictions and letting the heavy loads roam around on its decks. Inside the kitchen, the cutlery rattles and falls from the drawers to the floor. But the ship is silent.

It doesn’t creak, doesn’t whine. It fights in silence, without seeking divine help. The noise comes from the skies as they despair, from the oceans as they rage, from the things inside of the ship as they pray to keep living.

And as you move away, safe in the distant coast, the metal gives up and water fills the lower compartments, the soul of the ship expires like a suspire, without making a sound but with the shadow of a smile.

 

_A ghost wearing white walks over the main deck._


	26. the new, old fairytale.

The attic is full of dust. It looked like no one had entered there while his grandfather lived. There isn’t electricity, but his mother has left a lit candle over the table to give him some light. The first thing he sees is the book. It is old and its cover is worn out, but when he opens it, the words inside still shine like fresh ink.

 _The Sleeping Beauty_ , says the first title. 

_Once upon a time there was a young princess blessed with several gifts and a curse. The cruelty of an old, forgotten witch and the imprudence of the king and queen triggered the disaster at the party after the baptism of the infant. Six good fairies had given her their blessings when the evil appeared._

_She would fall in a deep slumber from which she wouldn’t awake unless the son of a king kissed her._

_Or that was the seventh good fairy told them. Her kind nature didn’t let her allow the princess’ demise, but the words of the evil witch echoed in her mind._

_“Better forever asleep than awake and a slave.”_

 

 

* * *

“What kind of book is this?” he asks to himself. There are paragraphs completely blacked out or ripped pages. Whoever had the book, didn’t like princess stories.

 _The Red Riding Hood_ , was the next. 

_She was a lovely child, devoted to her family and missed her grandmother most of all, that’s why she was walking through the woods to reach her house._

_The girl jumped over a fallen tree and started to whistle. Her mother had said that the woods were dangerous, there were wolves and wild animals hungry for human flesh._

_When she saw the knight, she stopped. He was sitting over a stump, near to the lumberjack’s cottage._

_“Good morning, sir!” she said, approaching him. “Are you lost?”  
_

_“Hello, little one,” answered him with a cheerful voice. “I’m in the search of a princess fair, trapped under a powerful curse that only a prince can break.”  
_

_“Are you a prince then, your lordship?” she asked, with her big eyes shining.  
_

_“Indeed am I, little one. I…” and the axe cut the air._

_The prince’s head fell to the ground and her cap was dripping red. With her small arms she lifted the corpse and sit him on his horse again. His dead hands moved and gripped the reins._

_The horse reared up, neighing like the ancient beasts of war._

_“Now they won’t have to worry about the wild beasts,” she said as the headless horseman walked away. “Now they will have to fight against their nightmares.”  
_

_And skipping merrily, she headed towards her grandmother’s house._

* * *

“What the fuck” he says.  _Yes, quite_ , adds his mind.

But his eyes move to the next title. 

 _Rapunzel_.

_The prince stood at the feet of the tower. His horse was nervous, but nothing could mine down his happiness. Her love, the beautiful girl in the high tower, had accepted his proposal._

_“Rapunzel!” he called. “Rapunzel, let down your hair, so that I may climb thy golden stair!”  
_

_He saw her beautiful face leaning out of the window. She waved her pale hand and disappeared before letting her long and gold hair fall out._

_He started climbing and when he reached the windowsill, his wife to-be helped him inside. They hugged, drunk with happiness._

_“My love,” he started to say. “I swear in the name of God that I will make you…”_

_But never finished his promise._

_The lady put her hair around his neck like the rope to hang a man. He struggled but she was stronger. A childish laugh resounded in the circular room and he saw the red figure approaching as her lady hanged up from the ceiling._

_“Another one who falls for love,” said the girl.  
_

_Next to him, there was another man. His collar was made of rope, but golden hairs where still stuck on his throat._

* * *

He closes the book. Those fairytales were bizarre.


	27. the gold.

It runs smooth and cold inside your veins. It doesn’t shine anymore, buried deep inside your body, but when it flows outside, it absorbs all light and turns mate and even. It glows, making your skin look paler and your bones sharp and protuberant. 

Everything around your blood dims. 

The flowers bow their heads and colors, and the skies lose their lights. The grays reign and the soil and the rocks look withered and subdued. The shadows are slow and hesitant, turning penumbra under the bewitched ambient. 

Your shallow breath sounds like the wings of a dying butterfly or the swinging of a thin blade through the air. The evergreen forests start to lose their leaves around you. Slowly, intimately. Just one at a time. Like souls reaped in a marshland.

But the gold, the gold shines cold. It’s a signal, a path to follow.

Your feet are dark with dirt and your clothes torn. You walk clumsily, your eyes are fixed in the gold. You stumble, creating chaos and noise in the sepulchral silence. But the gold, the gold, the gold. 

You never had anything. You’ve been always looked down and left behind. No one even cared to hate you because you’re nothing. Less than nothing. You now there’s gold running through your veins. Only your veins.

 

_Behind you a ghost opens his eyes and fades._

__


	28. the candle.

Protected by glass, it glows.  
Fire dim and soft  
Wax runs slow and smooth.  
Ghosts breathe over it, waiting for its decease.  
It’s the only light in a darkened room.  
A small bubble of candor surrounded by years of desolation.  
It twinkles and falters,   
translucid walls rising up around its luminous heart.  
It dwarfs like the dreams of a teenager, an early adult of a butterfly.  
It’s losing the battle, but would it ever die?  
Don’t surrender, little light, don’t think about giving up.  
The light is weak, and the darkness is overwhelming,  
but dying is   
losing to your own instincts.  
You won’t rest, not with your soul cold.  
The fire is dying, blue and alone.

Fight, darling, just another night.


	29. the bones and scales.

He wears an oversized tunic to keep his soul chained to his skin behind shap bones and mirrored scales; stardust clinges ancient in his hair, ivy in his chest and dark circles under his eyes.

“Every prison has a way out,” he mumbles, low and somnolent.

If he were some character of a book, sometimes he would be the dormouse of Alice’s Wonder?land. Other times he would be the lonely shore of the Eridanus or the knife with which Persephone chained herself to the underworld. But he would never be the love.

Love was a thing for the living, and he was unalive.


	30. the end.

They found your bones painted in a cave where the waves had left shells and seaweeds. They found your last wishes burned in your mother’s kitchen stoves. They found the switchblades you used to escape the pain and found your pain covered in tears.

But they never found the smell of your skin against hers or the way your heart beat when she laughed. They couldn’t find the promises made between jokes or the melodies played in silence. They tried to find the roses you gave her, blushing, or the days without talking.

They only found her name written a thousand times and the way you couldn’t say it out loud because it would fade and you were scared of letting her fade.

They found her grave, and they were scared to have to open yours too soon.

They didn’t know you were walking with it all along, wearing it like the gentle touch of the winter memories.


	31. the beginning.

In every battlefield always survives a flower, but souls aren’t battlefields that time can cure and bring life again. Time makes souls wastelands, barren from feelings and only memories are left.

Then the memories leave to warmer places -your eyes, your mouth, your hands. Butterflies die young and the ripples from a pond last enough to not wanting to see them.

And as the blood plumps through your veins and you walk again, her memories flow through your mind like the knifes you’ve been swallowing and the pills you’ve been taking and the songs you’re not hearing and the words you’re not reading to fall asleep.

“You’re not dying without me,” says the violence to the desolation. “You’re not fucking dying without me.”

The desolation is crying. But what the desolation wants is to implode, hopes the thorns break through the sternum and consume everything like a home sized black hole that will disappear into a puff of smoke, like one of those cheap magic tricks that magicians play on the streets.

“Why do you always have the words?” says the desolation, desperate.

But the violence doesn’t answer. The violence just looks at the desolation. And they go on.

Beginnings aren’t always starts, but continuations.


End file.
